


Ceaseless Watcher

by Irisen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist!Gertrude, Canon Asexual Character, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Morality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monster!Jon, Spoilers, Statements, this isn't light and happy kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-21 01:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irisen/pseuds/Irisen
Summary: There's a monster that keeps popping up in the statements Tim reads. Somehow, he's the only one who notices it.





	1. 0150125

It's been three weeks since they were asked to leave their post as researchers to go help the new head archivist settle into her functions, and Tim is already tired of it.

He didn't join the Magnus Institute due to an interest for the occult, like most people, or due to a love of research and discovery, he did it in order to find out what happened to his brother, which means that sitting on his ass all day reading statements after statements to his beat-down work computer is not something he enjoys very much. Martin and Sasha might appreciate the reprieve and the somewhat shorter hours, but, on top of being bored out of his mind, he feels useless, he feels wasted.

Danny's corpse is probably rotting somewhere and he is nowhere near being able to find it, especially not now, when most of what he does all day is rearrange dusty files and try not to cough himself to an early grave due to the serious lack of cleaning that has been done in the archives over the years.

He should never have said yes, he tells himself every day, he should have turned Elias down and stayed in his position as a researcher, where he could actually  _do_ something. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his career making tea for Gertrude Robinson and eating biscuits with Martin. He wants to go out and he wants to bash in the head of the arsehole who thought they could take his brother away from him and get away with it. He wants to fight, he wants to move he wants to be useful.

Gertrude's not blind, she knows very well how he feel about her, about this new job as an archival assistant, so she keeps away from him. The old woman was a bit of a legend, back when they were all researchers, and she's as impressive in person than in the rumors. Back then, he had trouble believing that she was behind half of the repossessed Leitner in artifact storage. Now, he wonders if the numbers might actually be closer to two third, maybe even three quarters. She's just that good. And that impressive too.

A simple glare for her is enough for him to stop his brooding and get back to work, whenever she passes by his small, cramped office. He's tried to barricade himself in it a few times, now that he doesn't have to share an open space with all the lower level researchers, but the door doesn't close fully (it is  _that_ ancient) and Martin has no concept of privacy so he's found himself being forcibly dragged out to drink tea and have crackers more times than he can remember. He would appreciate it, normally, and even sometimes instigate it, but right now he's just not in the mood.

"Mr Stoker." Gertrude tells him, walking by his office, a pile of papers in her hands and a scowl on her face. "Get back to work."

The words are familiar and, as always, Tim finds himself obeying, turning off Twitter and dropping his phone on his desk, where it slides underneath a bunch of torn up files and dogged ear reports from years ago. The saddest part of it all is that most of them aren't even that old, but they have still been recorded as if it were the 60s, and not 2015. Whoever the previous head archivist was (he thinks it was a guy, and a young one at that), he wasn't that good at organizing things. Probably never even had a proper degree, if he was recruted the same way as them all, so Tim can't really blame him for his lack of a proper filing system.

But still,  _paper_. What's wrong with a good old digital file?

After sifting through a bunch of stained statements, he settles on one that looks less boring than the others and scribbles a few notes at the top of it. They're supposed to record them on computers, and on tape recorders, Gertrude said, if for some reason their software doesn't work (it has never happened to him yet, but Martin told him that it was a regular thing for both him and Sasha, so maybe he's just lucky) but they're still supposed to file the physical versions of the statements away in a semi-organised manner. Gertrude chose to class them by date and then in alphabetical order, if they have more than one on the same day. It's probably not a very efficient filing system but none of them know enough to contradict it so they all go with it. Blessed be the fools.

"Statement of Melissa Whitney, regarding a vision she had. Original statement given March 13th 2012, audio recording by Timothy Stoker, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."

The whole thing is utter bullshit, really, some drug fueled trip that ended with the statement giver having a pretty awful bad trip and, sure, Tim can't judge anyone for taking drugs, he has partaken in a few wild parties back in the day, but going so far as to contact the  _Institute_ to give a statement about it is pushing it. Why couldn't she just tell her friends and have a laugh? Why did she have to come to them?

He sends a desperate glance to his cellphone, thinking about the night at the pub he has planned with some of his old college buddies. It's only two in the afternoon but he wishes he could join them right now. Nothing like a good pint of beer to forget about the awfulness of a job, like everyone knows.

However, he thinks he can hear Martin start to brew some tea, in the break room, which is ridiculously close to his tiny office, so he'll have to pretend to be busy to avoid being dragged there. The kid might be nice but he's in a terrible mood, and giving him something non-alcoholic will do nothing to soothe it. So, because he cares about his coworker's well-being, he grabs another statement, this one put in a file a bit thicker than the others, which speaks of a minimum of research, and opens it quickly. He'll need to look properly invested if Martin tries to pop in, look like he's real busy.

**Mary Hayes, 25th January 2015**

**Subject**   **: he won't stop watching**   **me**

**Attached files : Research notes, fields reports, pictures, additional witness testimonies.**

Nice, another crazy. Looks like his day isn't going to get better.

With a sigh and a forlorn look at the cracked clock hanging off his wall, Tim fiddles with his computer's microphone and turns on his recording software, trying his best not too sound to dejected about his situation as he speaks the first few words into the mic. The name of the statement giver, then the date, then-

Something fizzles in his ears and the software shuts down abruptly.

He frowns.

A bit annoyed now, he tries it a second time, his voice tight with irritation, and groans when he's faced with the same result and the realisation that he'll have to use the tape recorder Gertrude has lended him. Great, more archaïc technology to brighten his already gloomy and depressing day, how wonderful.

Once he's done struggling to make the damn recorder work, which takes him a good ten minutes, he leans back in his chair, statement in his hand and clears his throat. It's a bit weird to be speaking into a recorder like that, he doesn't even know where it came from, God knows he hasn't seen the things anywhere in the music stores he goes to, but by now he's too eager to leave the archives to think about it for too long. Just a few more statements and then the pub will be all his. He can do this.

"Statement of Mary Hayes, regarding-"

He eyes the subject written down on the paper, in a shaky handwriting, and sighs again.

"-regarding a stalker. Original statement given January 25th 2015, audio recording by Timothy Stoker, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."

Something buzzes next to his ears then fizzles into nothingness. A chill settles deep in his bone and, suddenly, he feels like he's being watched.

Damn, and he hasn't had anything to drink yet. This job is really stressing him out.

"I'm sorry if this is a bit- messy. I haven't been able to sleep well lately and I just had to talk to someone, you know? I just had to tell them what happened and... what is happening to me right now. No one I know will believe me, hell Pat even suggested I go see a shrink. Can you imagine this? A shrink... But hey. They say you'll accept any story and, judging by what I've dug up on you, you aren't exactly the kind to judge the information you're being given so I guess this is the best place for me right now. You might not believe me but at least you'll listen to me, right?

I can't believe I've fallen that far.

I- I used to be pretty important in the editing industry. Not really big, you know, I didn't work with any of the really famous authors and I haven't ever helped with a best seller but I'm still well-known in that field. I have a knack for detecting potential, it's just something I'm good with. I can tell if a young author puts soul in what they write and, if they do, usually they have a pretty bright future ahead of them. As I've said before, not best seller worthy but still pretty damn good.

It's because of one of these young authors that I'm here now, and I don't know if I hate him for it or not. I mean, he has it worse than me, in a way, and considering what we've been dealing with, I'm not sure if he could even make the choice to-

Anyways. His name is-was Colin. I'm not giving you any last names but you could probably find it if you really wanted to, he has published a few poetry books over the years. They're good.

He i-was the kind of kid that was really into the art of writing, if you see what I mean. He poured himself into the words he wrote and every one of his poems had some part of him hidden within it. It's the kind of crap I love, of course, so I took him under my wing as soon as I met him. He was a bit... hands on, if you can say that when it comes to litterature, he loved to do research, to get inspiration from traveling and meeting people. He once backpacked through Germany with no money and no food of his own, to give himself the motivation to write.

He ended up getting a few good texts out of this trip so I didn't scold him too much. But he was a bit difficult to work with. I liked his stuff so I mostly let him be, but sometimes I had to be a bit sterner, especially when there was a deadline to be reached and he was in one of his moods. You know artists, they get those.

As I've said before, he was really into meeting and talking to people to get inspiration, he once invited a homeless man to spend two weeks at his flat to learn about his life and he had no qualms putting him back on the streets after that, odd kid, I know. So, when he texted me about being busy for the next few days because he had "met a new muse", I wasn't really surprised, mostly exasperated, if I'm being honest. There he goes again, I thought, obsessing over a random stranger.

He sent me a few poems over these days and they were- they were really good actually. Better than his usual lot. The bloke he was getting his inspiration from, his new muse, was more than happy to spend hours talking with him and he obviously had a lot of things to tell him because the substance of it all- it was... not deep, but- Disturbing, in a way. I don't know how to describe it. There was something in it, like I was starring into a deep, vast hole of experience and knowledge and I was teetering over the edge, not quite falling but just about to. He really reproduced this feeling very well, in his texts. The gravity of it all. Back then I thought, oh this guy must be one interesting lad, and just went on with my day.

Colin was doing very well so I invited him over for dinner to talk about his progress and I guess I wasn't that surprised when he answered that he couldn't, that he was busy, I chalked it up to him being really into his art and not having time for regular plebeian things like having dinner with someone. It's not the first time it happened so-

The next day he sent me ten poems.

They were- The logical part of me wants to say they were a mess, barely coherent and written with no structure, no rythm, but there was a thing about them, just under the surface. They made me feel. How big the world was, how much sadness was in the hearts of men, how it felt to die of hunger, how devastating can a death be. There were so many subjects, some of which I knew Colin had never experienced, so it must all come from his new friend, but it was so detailed, so powerful.

The day after that, he sent me twenty poems.

At first, I thought he was just really inspired, but now it was getting proper weird. Writing ten poems, especially ones that good, in a day is difficult, it's not something anyone can do. And Colin was talented, of course, but he was no Keats. I started getting a bit worried about him.

Over the next few days, he would send me poems every hour, and then every other minutes. By the end, they ressembled nothing close to a coherent text but there was still something in the words that brought up memories I didn't remember having, people I didn't remember meeting. There was one about cannibalism and it was- I can feel it. In my mouth. The words, the blood, the  _taste_.

I went to his flat.

I had to. I was so worried, I hadn't gotten any sleep the night before and I knew that something was wrong, that he was in trouble. He was just a kid, you understand. Just a foolish, awkward kid.

The door wasn't locked so I didn't have to break in or anything, I didn't do anything wrong, I was just worried about him, I just wanted to know if he was alright.

I've been in his flat a few times, it's quite big, for London, and it's well-furnished, thanks to his parents, so he has a proper living room, a kitchen, a bathroom and even two bedrooms, I believe. I knew he spent most of his time in his bedroom when he was writing so I called out for him and started walking in that direction, but-

There was a man sitting on the couch.

I remember his eyes, they were-

The best word I can find is entranced. He looked like he was watching the most fascinating thing he had ever seen his life, like he couldn't miss one second of it. His gaze was so intense, it wasn't directed at me, not yet, but it was so bloody intense. I think I made a noise, not a scream but I was definitely surprised. He didn't turn. Whatever he was looking at seemed much more interesting to him.

That's when the smell hit me.

Whoever tells you that decay is a sweet scent is lying, it smells terrible. Like rotten meat and crap and the kind of stuff that makes flies go crazy. I almost collapsed from it but the fear of knowing where it was coming from kept me going, if only for a little while.

I walked to the living room, and, of course, there he was.

He was sitting on the floor, in front of the couch, bent over a dozen, a hundred pieces of paper, all covered in jumbled writings. He was wearing the same shirt and pants he had been the last time I saw him, but they were so dirty they had lost most of their colour. There was a puddle of- something, that stretched around him and he was so thin. Like a skeleton. Little more than bones covered by a flimsy sheet of skin, slimmer than a dried leaf. His face was angled downwards but I could still see it. His mouth was hanging open, tongue rotten and purple, and his eyes were sunken, unmoving, but there was still this expression on his face, the same one the man sitting on the couch was wearing.

Utter fascination.

Delight.

The paramedics told me his heart gave out after weeks of fasting and of exhaustion. He lost his mind, they explained, it wasn't safe for him to stay on his own but, in the end, it was nobody's fault, not really.

That was a lie, even if they didn't realise it.

The truth is that it was  _someone_ 's fault and that someone was sitting there, cross-legged, on the couch, staring at the body of my protégé, like one would stare at a particularly intriguing animal in a zoo. He was so calm, so poised and I remembered the poems about murder, about death and about the smell of rot Colin had sent me, over the last week, and I knew that he had experienced all of the terrible things they described.

When I turned towards him, his eyes crossed mine.

He didn't look fascinated anymore, but there was still an interested light in his eyes, a bit of curiosity. I couldn't move one inch as he started observing me from head to toes, couldn't say a word. I felt like I was being stripped, torn to pieces in front of a howling crowd. He was only looking but, in that instant, I felt like he knew everything about me, my darkest secrets, my deepest desires. The things I had never told anyone.

I ran.

I'm not ashamed to say it, I was so scared back then, so goddamn terrified. I ran away and called the police as soon as I found my voice again. They treated me as some traumatised victim of sort and spoke to me very softly, very nicely, but I didn't care. I kept telling them that he was still there, the man, I kept telling them.

But they didn't believe me.

No one does. He's right there, still. I can't see him, not in person, but I can feel him, feel his soulless gaze upon me, judging my actions, judging my past, judging  _everything_. he's here, following me, watching me, but no one believes it.

It's been a week now, since I found Colin, and I haven't seen the man again. But I know he's here. I can't sleep at night because I can feel his eyes on my back, and I don't know what he'll do to me if I ever slip into a proper dream. I can't relax with Pat or with the kids because I fear what he's thinking about them. What if he starts watching them to? What will I do then.

They all think I'm mad but you guys, you deal with that type of stuff all the time, right. Surely you can help me. I need- I just need someone to believe me. To feel it like I do."

 

The last few words leave Tim's throat and are left hanging in the air, heavy and sad. This story, he thinks as he turns off the tape recorder, is truly awful. An innocent woman confronted with the dead body of her protégé, traumatised by it and pushed into a circle of madness, this is-this is much more serious than what he usually has to deal with. It isn't a tale of drugs, alcohol or even proper, real monsters. It's just a tale of sadness and of humanity gone terribly wrong.

Damn, he's sad now.

The desperation of the poor woman was palpable through the text and, as he read it aloud, he felt it seep into his own heart. He could almost imagine the feeling of eyes peering into his mind, never leaving him, as she described in the last paragraphs. This paranoïa is all too familiar, he experienced it for a while after Danny's disappearance, twitching at every loud sound, bristling at the sight of bright colours and  _dancing_.

Shit.

Hands trembling, he reaches for his phone and sends a few texts. He's not going to the pub tonight.

He doesn't feel like drinking anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmm this is an idea i wanted to write. monster jon and archivist gertrude along with a curious tim.


	2. [Statement Inconclusive]

"Tim," Gertrude tells him as soon as she sees him enter the archives, dark circles under his eyes and a frown on his face, "you're on patron duty."

He makes a show of groaning loudly at that, managing not to wince when the sound of his own voice pokes at his already present headache, and he tries to ignore Martin and Sasha as they shoot him disapproving glances. They're just jealous because they weren't invited last night, he thinks. He knows for a fact that Martin isn't against hitting the pub on a week day, if he's in an exceptionally bad mood, so he has no right to judge him like that.

He can't quite imagine  _Gertrude_ going out to have a pint with the lads, however, which explains her lack of sympathy and utter ruthlessness as she puts him on the least desired job in the archives, when he's clearly not at his best.

Figures, one look at his face and she probably already knew all that had happened the night before. It's annoying, sometimes, having a boss that's this perceptive.

Not to mention Elias, the guy is even worse, considering that, on top of prying, he's also incredibly creepy. Tim truly has the worst employers in the world, and that's not counting the monsters.

But then, the monsters were happy to disturb his life even before he joined the Institute, so that's probably not Bouchard's fault, despite how insufferable the man has proven himself to be over the past few months. Martin, sweet, hard-working Martin, doesn't see anything wrong with his behaviour and Sasha is pragmatic enough not to stop at a first impression but Tim is done with politeness and with giving people time to prove themselves, that cordial part of himself died along with Danny. Now, when he sees someone suspicious, he makes sure never to trust them. He can pretend to like them, sure, but he'll never let himself be vulnerable again.

The first two hours of his shift go quickly, he talks with a girl who has trouble sleeping because she keeps seeing a demon crouched over her bed (he gives her the references of one of the numerous psychiatrists the Institute works with) and he listens to the ranting of an old man who clearly has nothing to do today and is just looking for some company. He doesn't throw him out, he's not a complete bellend, but he only answers with grunts and raised eyebrows. Hey, at least it's better than reading one of these freaky statements. Who knows? If he had stayed inside, maybe he'd have inadvertantly found one.

He hates them. So far, only Gertrude has been able to read one of them without having to take a few days off after that. Not only are they exhausting but they leave all of them feeling wrong, somehow. Tainted.

The third bloke that comes in, about thirty minutes before Tim's lunch break, shoots him a disapproving look as soon as he sees him, lingering on his hair and on his slouched posture, and he  _knows_ that this one is going to be insufferable. Gertrude is probably laughing at him right now. Or not. He's not sure the woman even knows how to laugh.

"Got no one else to take my statement, eh?" The man sneers, sitting down heavily in front of him, accross the small desk. Tim doesn't bother responding, but he does make it very obvious that he's checking the time on his phone. If he gets treated without respect, then he gets to do the same.

"Sorry you were saying?" He asks after a tense minute. The frown on the patron's face deepens and his neck is starting to redden but he ignores it in favour of opening an empty file very loudly. The man wants to give a statement, he'll give a statement, but he shouldn't expect any politeness to go with it.

Tim can only hope that this is going to be short, he  _is_ rather hungry after all.

"Guess they keep you lot around for this kinda stuff." The arsehole snickers. "So what you gonna do? Write down what I say?"

"Yeah. Ideally you'd have started giving me a statement by now but if it's difficult for you to think, you can take your time."

"It ain't difficult you little-"

Tim clears his throat loudly, moving back to lean into his chair, relaxed. If he's dealing with a dickhead, at least he can make it entertaining enough that it becomes a funny story to tell around tea with the others. Gertrude would disapprove of their habit of purposefully annoying rude patrons and Elias would no doubt have a heart attack but, sometimes, even someone as nice as Martin can snap, and it's always amusing to hear about it.

"Name?"

"What?"

"What is your name, sir?"

"George Bryant." He hisses out, glaring at him, his large face red with barely contained anger. He makes quite a funny sight, furious and slightly disheveled, like a villain out of a children's movie. Downturned mouth and dark eyes, a true antagonist.

"So what's up, George?"

"Listen here you-"

"Mind if I call you George?"

"I ain't come here for that." Bryant grumbles. "That how your company treats people?"

Tim shrugs then, deciding, perhaps wisely, that he's risking a bit more than a scolding from Gertrude if he keeps this attitude up. He drops the smartarse grin and takes on his professional air, the one he has practiced for hours in front of a mirror, to get ready for his first job interview. He's quite good at it and, immediately, Bryant relaxes, fooled into thinking that he has managed to shut him up.

"Yeah better like that. Now you listen to what I'm saying, 'right? You listen good, cause I'm not gonna say it twice, got it?" After Tim nods silently, he continues : "Right. So I came here to tell you lot about-eh. A thief. A dirty bloody thief."

"We don't deal with criminal here, si-"

"I ain't talking about no normal thief," Bryant growls, his frown back on his face, "or I woulda gone to the police. I'm not stupid. Don't look at me like that. I know what I'm doing. I know what this cunt's all about. What he did to me and to my family."

Diligently, Tim writes down " **his experiences with a thief** " as the subject of the statement and wishes dearly that he could have gone out for burgers, as Martin proposed they do. Both of them like to eat out around town and, even if they usually keep it rather healthy, a bit of fast food once in a while can't hurt. At least it's good for the spirit, right?

"Right, the thief. You taking this down? Write it properly."

"I know how to write, sir."

"Never know with your kind. Can't be too careful. The thief's like you. Well, not like you, like you, he's less of a-"

Oh now this man is truly delightful, he thinks as the patron resumes his ranting. Sasha will be endlessly amused when she hears about how moronish he is.

"Sir, please, if your ... experience ... has no connection to the surnatural or the unexplained, the Institute can't-"

"I'm getting to it! Let me speak for God's sake."

The dickhead stops talking for a while, calming himself with a deep, rattling breath. Even his cheeks and forehead are red now and he's sweating profusely. Tim has absolutely no compassion for him.

"He took my daughter from me."

Oh.

Well, this has gotten darker than he was expecting.

"Do you mean he killed her?"

"No! She's still there. She lives with us and all. She's fine. But she's- He took her." As he speaks, Bryant starts tapping the side of his head with one of his fingers, shaking slightly. "He took her."

Before Tim can express his confusion, the man starts speaking again, his voice more hurried now, as if he's eager to get the story out of his mind.

"Met him a few weeks back, didn't think much of him. But then I kept meeting him and I don't know what I did but I musta done something because he went after me. And he went after my daughter. He took her away. She's still here but she's gone. I don't know her anymore."

 _Capgras syndrome_ ? Tim wonders, as he tries to make sense of what the patron is saying. It looks like he's blaming a stranger for what he feels around his daughter and, as he keeps ranting and ranting, it becomes obvious that, rather than the fault of some random dude on the street, it's probably caused by an illness of some sort. He feels a bit bad for the man, even if he's a dick, a mental illness is a terrible way to go out, and it's going to be painful on his family as well. He might not like him as a person but he can sympathise with him, if only a little.

To appease Bryant, who's starting to get quite worked up, he clears his throat again and asks, as quickly as he can :

"Can you describe him?"

"-remember any... What? Who?"

"The man. The thief. The one you keep talking about."

Bryant falls quiet once again, deep in thought.

"He- He was- no, I can't..."

The man crosses his arms in front of his chest and, when he starts talking again, his tone is tense and his body is shaking ever so slightly.

"His eyes. They were- wrong. Somehow. They didn't look right. And the colour was off. It's like he was normal but not really."

A bit taken aback, Tim writes down the short description, scribbling it under the short summary he's made of Bryant's hysterical ranting. In front of him, the patron is still silent, his skin now deathly pale, the beads of sweat replaced by goosebumps on his forearms, despite the warm June weather. He's distraught, that much is obvious and, once again, Tim despises him and his behaviour but he feels sorry. In a few month, the guy is going to be nothing but an empty shell, a ghost, if he's unlucky. If not, he still has some pretty hard time ahead of him. It's something he can understand, something he can relate with.

"Are you- are you going to catch him?"

When he looks a Tim, there's nothing in his eyes but pure desperation and, for the first time since he came in, the assistant can see the deep lines of worry on his face, and the crazed glaze in his pupils. This is his last resort. He probably went to the police before, he thinks, but the thing he really needs is medical help. However, Tim doesn't believe a man like him will listen to a shrink, or even go see one willingly.

So, instead of playing into his delusions, he hands out the phone number of one of the Institute's best therapists and wishes him good luck. Bryant is too rattled to insult him again but he does throw the paper on the ground before he leaves the room, his lips curled in disgust.

It's one in the afternoon. Tim's lunch break ends in ten minutes. He doesn't care that much, he's not hungry anymore.

The statement was inconclusive, full of holes and devoid of any real story. He's not good at this, taking down people's accounts. The only one who can really get people to talk is Gertrude, and they all know it. When one of them, the assistants, take care of the patrons, they all know that they're not going to get anything productive out of it at the end of the day, but the head archivist can't spend all of her time on one task, not when there's so much organising to be done.

He reaches out and stamps a big red  **[statement inconclusive]** on the paper. As he glances over it, his gaze catches on the thief's, the delusion's, description. A man with strange eyes.

Unfortunately, this stirs a memory he would have rather left untouched.

He knows he's not supposed to do it, he knows he's supposed to dispose of the inconclusive statements as soon as he gets them but...

But  _the eyes_.

It was his first true statement and, to this day, his most disturbing one. He remembers it. He remembers the way the monster it talked about was described.

As discreetly as he can, even though no one is in the room with him, he folds the paper in two and slides it into his jacket's pocket. It's nothing, probably, just a weird coïncidence, his paranoia acting up.

This is only the rantings of a sick mind, nothing to do with Hayes' statement.

Nothing.

As he leaves his seat to go grab a few biscuits in the break room, he shivers.

For some reason, he feels like he's being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one. wanted to write but didn't have much creative energy today. rip.


End file.
